


From Her Mother's Tears, the Sea Was Born

by Gamemakers



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamemakers/pseuds/Gamemakers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Victors Village, there is no true line between past and present, and even life and death are not as opposed as they may seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Her Mother's Tears, the Sea Was Born

Up here, far above the town, where the sound of the waves faded into nothingness to match the death all around them, was hallowed ground. Champions had lived and died here, their names whispered or proudly announced, never merely spoken. They had once been children, but from the way the old folk talked of them, they had become something far from human. Trained murderers that had sliced through children on their way to glory and riches were banished up to the cliffs to live their lives away from the commoners less willing to give up their souls. Before she passed, Grandmother said that a few of the tortured souls had never left, that they still walked the streets of the Victors Village with only the other spirits and the crazy old witch woman, who was only half-alive herself, to keep them company.

The woman who lived up here, the one who kept the other houses neat and well-maintained while she allowed her own home to rot around her, was the only one who might catch him.  _She's old,_ he told himself,  _even if she does see you, you can outrun her._ He licked his lips and glanced back over his shoulder. There was still time to back out of this. Nobody would ever have to know.

He would still know, though, and that was enough to keep him going. He and Carlson had talked about doing this more times than he could remember, sneaking up there and seeing if those stories were for real. Now, Carlson can't, and that only further fueled his desire. The borders between life and death weren't as clear up here, or so he'd heard it said, and if that was true, this seemed his best chance of seeing his friend again. For some opportunities, he would brave even the Village.

The gate that separated the two worlds looked as though it had been placed there yesterday rather than nearly a century and a half prior. He faced hardly any resistance as he pushed it open, the hinges having been well-oiled by the madwoman. Though lights did not shine in the windows, the houses almost seemed alive, each with a fresh coat of paint and a neatly maintained yard. Flowers bloomed in the mailboxes, one or two of which had their flags up to indicate a letter ready to be delivered, and he almost expected someone to emerge to check their mail. Even the air was sweet, but there was the faintest note of something rotten beneath it. Strange, he thought, that decay could hide amongst the sweetest things.

The house at the very end of the lane told a very different tale than the others. He had heard of Annie Cresta, as everyone had, and how, over the years, the Victors Village had become her personal madhouse. Unlike the other Victors, she hadn't had the good fortune to die quickly. Johanna Mason had cemented the public's image of the Victors as haunted, troubled, and violent when she was found still clutching a double-barreled shotgun with blood spattered on the wall behind her. Age killed Haymitch and Beetee before they could become nuisances. Twelve's star-crossed lovers had passed only weeks apart shortly after their thirtieth wedding anniversary, the perfect end to the fairytale romance that had played out for the cameras. Nobody knew or particularly cared what had happened to Two's remaining Victor, for after the war, it was thought best to leave those who had opposed the rebel's cause out of the history books. Only Annie Cresta, who was nearing a hundred, kept Panem from moving forward. The suited men in District Hall, the ones who liked to stamp papers that took homes and made them official Historic Sites, had been holding their breath and waiting for her to pass for decades, but something kept her going long after the others had passed.

He still hadn't seen her. The boy had expected to see some sign that another person was about by now. The Victors Village was not technically forbidden, but nobody dared come up here anymore. If the ghosts didn't get you, Crazy Cresta might. In any case, it was best to let the Victors Village stay in the past so that the rest of the district could move into the future.

When he reached the top of the hill, he could see the end of the lane.  _Ah. That_ had to be Annie Cresta's home. Unlike the other mansions, whose bright exteriors had been perfectly maintained, this home was missing shutters, had broken glass in the window panes, and its wood had long since lost any trace of paint. The time-warped stairs leading up to the front entrance were as uninviting as the sagging porch that surrounded it, and he shuddered just thinking about the fact that a woman lived there, even if there was no sign of her now.

He jumped back when he noticed a woman watching him from the front porch of the neighboring house, and he ran. The concrete made his knees pound, and he could barely breathe, but he still did not stop until he had reached the gates again. The boy looked up the lane as he panted, hands on his knees and struggling to catch his breath. She hadn't followed him, nor had she said anything. Maybe she wasn't going to do anything to him. After all, it must get lonely up here. Perhaps she wanted some company. If he needed to run away again, he could.

Going against his every instinct, he walked back up the hill. The woman still sat in her rocking chair, which rocked in time with the wind. However, when he looked closer, he could see that though her eyes were open, her entire body was slumped as though she was fast asleep. Cautiously, he went to the front steps of the blue house. "Miss Cresta? Are you all right?"

No response came, so he went up the first couple stairs. "Miss Cresta? Annie?" He finished climbing the stairs and stood before her, terrified as any eleven-year-old would be. "Miss Cresta?" His voice was little more than a whisper now, for though he should have suspected it before, he now knew the answer. Still, a morbid curiosity brought him to brush her skin, and it gave under the lightest pressure. His stomach roiled, and again he was running, this time all the way to the center of town, where there would be people who would know what to do. The boy hated himself for thinking the thought, but perhaps it was better this way. Now, at last, the Victors could be consigned to history, and Panem could be free of its past.

* * *

 

Years and years later, a morbid curiosity brought him back, and a new appreciation for the Village kept him there. He can see, now, why Annie Cresta hadn't wanted to leave. On nights like this, when the moon is out and the skies are clear, he can see both the district and the ocean from the deck of the house he's come to inhabit. The dictrict council doesn't mind, or at least has decided it's not worth the fight to get him to leave. After close to thirty years, he is pretty well entrenched in his role as sole resident and unofficial caretaker of the Victors Village. When he goes down to the main town, which isn't often these days, folks ask him if he's tired of the Village yet, if he gets lonely up there.

He could try to explain, but they would not understand. Yes, he lives alone, but it's far from lonely. Now that the sun's setting, it shouldn't be long at all. The porch swing begins to move before he sees her. He smiles over at her and wishes her a good evening, just as he does every other night. Across the street, lights have flicked on in a few of the houses, and he can spot shadows moving behind the blinds in a few of them. Shame on them, inside on a night like this. "Looks like not everyone's coming down this evening," he says, and he turns to look at the woman sitting next to him.

Mags doesn't answer; none of them ever do. He's almost certain they can't sense his presence, but he is happy enough just to be a spectator to their world. The man settles himself back in his rocking chair and watches them. There's Mags, of course, who spends most of her time sitting out here or wandering through her garden with her wife. Across the street live an older man and two younger women who have decided not to come out this evening. There are more at the end of the lane, but he doubts he'll be seeing them tonight. Not when he could watch this.

Two figures, hand in hand, glide out of the house next door, which is now, after years of work, just as beautiful and well-maintained as any of the others. In the moonlight, they are almost transparent, but he can still see the love on their features. The man, young and handsome, places one hand on his partner's waist, and together, they begin to dance to music that the living cannot hear. He smiles as they twirl together, but he cannot help but be impatient to hear the rhythm to which their feet move in time. It is only a matter of time, though, for he knows he'll never leave.


End file.
